Flashes
by Rarely Written
Summary: Little snipts of writing inspired by prompts. "John felt dead after the war. Sherlock revived him and suddenly he was walking a new path, a dangerous path, an exciting path, the best path."
1. Chapter 1

**I often saw these kinds of stories where they have a list of prompts and they wrote a small section of writing from those prompts. I wanted to give it a go, but I had no idea where they got the prompt list from, so I made my own. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.**

**Help**

"John!"

Sherlock's voice sounded off. John wasn't exactly sure what about it was wrong. However, it was enough to stumble out of bed at some ungodly hour. The sight that greeted him was well worth it. Sherlock had somehow managed to get tangled in a long ball of string. He stopped struggling around on the floor when John burst into laughter.  
"Oh haha. Now will you shut up and help me?"

**Career**

People had asked John why he became a doctor and his reply was always that he wanted to help others. He didn't think he could tell the truth until Sherlock asked, "The power I held in my hands, the power of life and death, it was such a rush."

**Books**

Sherlock often mumbled things he had read while he was asleep. Normally they were old case files or rubbish boring facts. It was still a surprise to John when Sherlock recited the first chapter of _Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince_. Afterwards John whispered a soft "Brilliant", Sherlock hadn't messed up a single word.

**Me**

Sometimes John was glad Sherlock was dead. That he didn't have to see the horrors written in the papers. Hear the whispers on the streets. He didn't have to deal with the reporters who only _"want a minute of your time!"_ He escaped the horrors before they had truly begun. It was in one of those moments that John whispered at Sherlock's grave, "Why couldn't you take me with you?"

**Friend**

Sherlock didn't have friends before John. He didn't understand the point of them, why give someone that much power over you? Until that moment of laughing and gasping after casing that cab across London. John shot him a smile and Sherlock finally knew why people wanted friends. It was the first time he wasn't alone.

**Water**

"Someone had better start talking," Lestrade glanced at the soaking wet Anderson, "Quickly."

Sherlock's stands in silence, waiting for John to explain. John has his head in his hands, having not moved since Lestrade arrived. Taking a deep breath, he looked up. His expression was unreadable, even for Sherlock. He opens his mouth but all that comes out is laughter. Everyone stares as John loses his control, falling to the floor. It's contagious and Sherlock's laughing too. Anderson's dripping face that's slowing getting redder only adding to the cause.

They were kicked off the case, of course. But they both agree that it was worth it.

**Beach**

"No."

"John…"

"No."

Sherlock made a sound that was almost a growl, spun around and stalked into the next room. He didn't understand what John's problem was. He'd been the bait before, anything to solve the case. It wasn't even that dangerous this time. Almost as if John could hear Sherlock's thoughts he shouted, "I'm not going to a nudist beach. EVER!"

**Second Best**

Five months after Sherlock's death Lestrade called him to a crime scene. John refused to go. After four more death, John went. Three weeks later John finally found evidence to catch the bastard. Sherlock would have done it quicker, but John was second best.

**Pink**

Sherlock wasn't normal. Normal was boring, normal was stupid. Normal people did pointless things like watch movies, eat junk because it tasted good, kiss people and other stuff like that. However, there was one pointless thing Sherlock allowed himself. A favourite colour, the colour pink. He never told anyone, he wasn't even sure why he liked it. He didn't like wearing it or having it around. But whenever he saw it he couldn't help but smile. He saw a woman covered in the sickly colour, lying dead on the ground. He saw cabs and clever puzzles. But more often than not, he saw a clueless doctor with no idea what he was about to get himself into.

**World**

"After my death I had to travel a lot. Could never stay at one place too long, got to see a great deal of wonderful things. But that didn't matter, because the only place in the world I wanted to be was here. Home."


	2. Chapter 2

**Space**

Sherlock was missing. He'd been gone for five days. Everyone was frantic, John especially. Why couldn't they find him? What if that fight was the last thing Sherlock would remember of their friendship? The body parts in John's bed hardly seemed important anymore. He would put up with thousands upon thousands of stupid experiments as long as Sherlock was okay. Then one day, without warning, John returned to the flat to find Sherlock playing the violin as if it never happened.

"Sherlock?"

He stopped playing and turned to face John. He said nothing, no explanation, just stared.

"Your back?" John asked.

Sherlock threw his hands in the air in clear annoyance, "You must be joking! That wasn't enough time? Or didn't I go far enough? Bloody hell John, I know you said you needed space, but I left London for a week, isn't that enough?"

**Fire**

People said Sherlock was cold, that he had a heart of ice. Sherlock agreed. People didn't know how John put up with him. Sometimes Sherlock didn't know either. But the truth was that John was a flame that burnt so brightly. He thought that if he let people get close that he would burn them. But you can't burn ice. They weight each other out. Sherlock won't let people be burned, John won't let them freeze. Fire and Ice, a friendship of legends.

**Teacher**

"I wanted to be a teacher when I was younger."

"What changed your mind?"

"Children are too weepy."

"You called them idiots, didn't you?"

"Well they were!"

**New**

John felt dead after the war. Sherlock revived him and suddenly he was walking a new path, a dangerous path, an exciting path, the best path.

**Old**

When Sherlock died, John had to leave his new life. He left Sherlock's war behind him and died all over again. Back to the same old, back to being dead.

**Comfortable**

John stared. And stared. And stared some more. Out of all the things Sherlock had done, John found this the strangest. Sherlock had fallen asleep half on the couch. However, it was his bottom half on the couch. His torso was curled on the floor. Weirder than that was John's laptop that was held to his chest, cuddling it like it was a teddy bear. John shook his head and walked away.

**Spirit**

A quiet moan floated to their ears and John glanced around nervously.

"Maybe it's a ghost," Sherlock teased.

John shot him a look, "It might be you know. When I was in Afghanistan I saw one. It almost killed me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and kept walking.

"It's true. I saw the gun just float up from the body of the enemy soldier. I stared at it, just waiting and then…" John paused as if remembering something horrible, "It fired. Killed four men before it ran out of bullets. Including the man who shot the enemy soldier."

Another moan was heard and this time Sherlock glanced around. John snorted.

"For someone so smart, you really are gullible."

**Days on End**

Get up. Get dressed. Meet Mrs Hudson at café. Try to smile, your worrying her. Leave café. Go to therapy. Talk. Walk home. It's raining. Get home. Lestrade calls. Don't answer. Watch crap telly. Harry calls. Don't answer. Turn TV off. Go to bed. Can't sleep. Nightmare. Can't sleep. Get up. Get dressed. Mycroft calls. Don't answer. Go for a walk. Leg is hurting. Keep walking. End up at Sherlock's grave. Can't talk. Don't cry. Walk home. Hold gun. Lestrade calls. Don't answer. Go to bed. Can't sleep. Nightmare. Can't sleep. Get up. Hold gun. Mrs Hudson calls. Talk. Hang up. Go for a walk. Leg hurts. Go to therapy. Talk. Never going back. Walk home. Hold gun. Go to bed. Can't sleep. Nightmare. Hold gun.

_When will this end?_

**Grapes**

"Why is it that you never bother to eat normally, but when I'm stuck in hospital you eat all my grapes?"

**Words**

"13 down is sacrilege."

"Thank you Sherlock for doing my crossword… again."

"You're welcome John."

"You need to learn about sarcasm."

**Thank you for reading this. I've had a lot of fun writing it. I know that it hasn't been up to some of your standards but it was just a bit of fun. I really hope you enjoyed this.**

**I have a question for you. You see, I'm quite happy to call this done. 20 prompts, not too bad. It's a good number. I've had some fun and I've finally written one of these stories. YAY! However, if you don't want to see this story end I'm happy to continue it. If you don't want me to continue with it, that's fine too. And if you just don't care, that's right, you guessed it, its all fine! Let me know in a review if you want me to keep going. **

**If not. It's been fun! See you later.**


	3. Chapter 3

**This one's a bit shorter than the others, but it's been a while and I thought I'd better put something up, even if it isn't all ten. **

**Evil**

Yellow graffiti covered the walls of London these days. They were a comfort to John; that people didn't buy into the lies. It gave him courage to start writing on his blog again. He wrote for the people who believed and for those that didn't. He wished he could say that he wrote for Sherlock, but he didn't. Most of the posts these days were to spread the word;

_Moriarty was real!_

**Art**

Sherlock's deductions were falling out his mouth, his brain thinking faster than his mouth was moving. Donavan looked at him with distain. Lestrade listened, waiting for the conclusion. But John, he saw the art. How each thought painted the life of another, outlining everything about them. Sherlock's eyes lightened the room so no secret could hide, so that every stroke painted was done with meaning and precision. The result was a masterpiece like no other. Though John had now controlled his immediate reaction, each and every time was worth the 'brilliant' that he wanted to say.

**Power**

"John, did you pay the power bill?"

"John."

"John!"

"JOHN!"

Sherlock opens his eyes to the dodgy apartment that he'd been renting. John had paid the power bill, for 221B, where he lived, thinking Sherlock was dead.

"Never mind."

**Rain**

The sky was crying, absolutely heartbroken. The tears had never fallen faster. Two men were walking down the street below, disappointed because they were unable to catch the man they were chasing. Out of nowhere one of them begins laughing.

"I'm alive!" He shouts to the confused sky.

His companion rolls his eyes, "Stop being so dramatic John, it's not like you were in any huge amount of danger."

"It's not that. It's raining! And if I've learnt one thing, life is all about dancing in the rain."

And he does just that, laughing and dancing to the music of water on rooftops. The taller of the two rolls his eyes again, but there's a smile on his lips. And the joy the pair share makes the sky feel better, but it keeps crying, so that the people below can dance in the rain.

**Sun**

It haunted John; the gunfire, the screams, the sand, the blood… Every night as he lays himself down he is transported back to that hell under the sun; and there is no escape until morning comes.

**Crazy**

"_You're insane!"_

"_You only just worked that out?"_

Sherlock watched his best friend walk away from an empty grave, brave faced like a solider. Sherlock knows that this is for the best. Better that John mourn him than Sherlock mourn John. John's a solider, he would survive.

"_I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart."_

And he would take care of Mrs Hudson. And the yard would take of Lestrade. They would all be okay. And Sherlock had been alone before, he can do it again. Only before, being alone didn't hurt.

"_I don't have friends. I've just got one."_

Why did Moriarty do this?

"_You're insane!"_

It wasn't fair.


End file.
